


Useless, Disgusting, Unlovable

by EzraBlake



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Amputation, Blackmail, Bodily Fluids, Cannibalism, Class Issues, Coffee, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Self-Hatred, Spit Kink, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EzraBlake/pseuds/EzraBlake
Summary: Will spits in Hannibal’s coffee. Unfortunately, Hannibal enjoys it. This could be the start of something dangerously intimate.WARNING: Gross, abusive, with a little gore.





	Useless, Disgusting, Unlovable

**Author's Note:**

> I also write original fiction. You can find me on Goodreads or on my website.

****

1\. Useless

Will can’t parallel park.

He was awake last night, stewing in himself, and now he can’t even remember what was so important about the rumination—probably the usual mantra of _useless, disgusting, unlovable_. Whatever it was, it robbed him of enough sleep that his body decided to take it by force, through half an hour of his blaring alarm. He’s late to work, again, and all the good spots are gone.

He parks in a metered lot ten blocks from the Milk Crate. The alternative is parallel parking, which really means smashing some yuppie’s Prius, and he can’t afford that. He’s barely making rent as it is.

In the dead of summer, the entire city stinks of shit and garbage. They try to keep it in check with green space and fresh air, but with so much shit and garbage in one place, it’s hard to avoid. It’s a million degrees, and he’s drenched in sweat by the time he shows up.

“Hey, Will, where have you been?”

“Parking,” Will mutters. “Sorry.”

He clocks in late, again, and takes a minute to clean. He’s not ready to face the public yet. Bev doesn’t mind manning the register, but if Jack is here today, Will’s going to get an earful if he takes more than a minute. He wipes down his face with a paper towel, plasters on his customer service smile, and gets to work making coffee for people who can afford to buy coffee. Assholes, the lot of them. Especially the guy in the plaid suit—he’s always in here, eyeing Will like he has something to say. Fuck him in particular.

Sometimes he can fall into the flow of this: the muscle memory, the scent of roasting beans. It’s very trendy to roast your own beans, these days. Will isn’t good at many things, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t know how to make coffee.

“Excuse me.”

It’s the plaid bitch.

“How can I help you?”

“I asked for a macchiato, and received a latte.”

Will stares at him, and then repairs his smile and takes the warm cup. “I’m sorry, sir. We’ll fix that right up for you.” He turns to Beverly, who’s mixing drinks now, but plaid suit touches his hand. Light, non-invasive, but every single instance of physical contact makes Will want to crawl out of his skin, so of course he notices.

“I want you to do it, Will.”

He gawks, and then glances down to his name tag, confirming that it does indeed say _Will._ “You want me to do it?”

“It was your mistake, so you should fix it yourself.”

A line is forming behind the plaid bitch. Will grits his teeth and says, “Of course, sir.”

Fuck him. Fuck his suit, fuck his smirk, and fuck his face. They’re slammed, and he doesn’t have time for this shit. He remakes the drink, his flow thoroughly disrupted—and then a terrible idea occurs to him.

It’s not the sort of thing he’d usually consider. If this guy’s face was as ugly as his suit, Will wouldn’t need to do it. Unfortunately for him, he’s kind of cute in a prissy, sugar daddy sort of way, and Will would very much like to see his delicate features dripping with semen, blood, or any bodily fluid, really.

_Useless, disgusting, unlovable._

He glances over his shoulder. The guy isn’t watching, so he gathers thick mucus in the back of his throat and spits in the coffee.

“Macchiato for…” He checks the cup and realizes he never got the guy’s name. He’s off his game today, but luckily, the asshole is already at the counter, smiling like he knows something Will doesn’t.

“Hannibal Lecter,” he supplies.

“Ah. Well, here’s your drink.”

“Thank you, Will.”

Hannibal Lecter takes the seat nearest the counter. Will tries not to watch as he removes the lid, inhales deeply, and takes the first sip—but then he locks eyes with Will and nods minutely.

Blood rushes to Will’s face, and he turns away.

~

His shift is almost over. He’s daydreaming about his saggy couch and a shot of whisky when Hannibal Lecter walks in the door, again. Will tries to hide. There is no hiding from this horrible apparition, whose eyes cut into him like razor blades, who drank his macchiato to the last drop and smiled at Will as he dropped his cup in the recycling bin.

“How can I help you?”

“When do you get off work?” Asks Hannibal.

“Oh. Uh, I’m busy.”

“That’s quite alright,” he says. “Could I have a macchiato, please? Medium, with your single-origin roast.”

“Sure,” Will says.

“You have a gift, you know. Truly, you make the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

Will eyes him as he packs grounds into the portafilter.

“I’m a chef myself, so I don’t offer such compliments lightly.”

“Thanks,” Will says.

Hannibal cocks his head. “I’ll take a seat. Bring my drink to the table, William.” And without waiting for Will to answer, he strides to the far end of the shop.

Who does he think he is, and what does he think he’s doing? Flirting? Is this how people flirt?

Any attraction Will felt toward him drains away with the realization, because he cannot be attracted to people who are attracted to him. He doesn’t know why, but it can’t happen. And this guy is fucking creepy. He says Will’s name way too often, not to mention, delivering coffee is not in his job description. If he was disabled, yeah, but he’s not. He’s just power tripping on a customer service worker who can’t fight back.

So Will spits in his coffee again, several times, before bringing it to the table. Hannibal smiles and, as expected, asks, “Sit with me for a moment?”

He glances around the shop. Nobody here aside from the androgynous young professional who’s been writing code on her computer for the past three hours—and besides, Will’s feet hurt. He takes a seat.

“Thank you,” says Hannibal. “I apologize if I’ve been too forward with you. The truth is, I find you quite charming, and I’d like to have you for dinner.” He removes the lid on his coffee, smells it, and takes a long sip.

“Oh.” Will says. Nobody has ever called him charming before. Hannibal is clearly delusional.

“I assure you, I’m an excellent chef.”

“Uh, I appreciate that, but I’m…straight,” Will lies.

“I see. Well, there’s no harm in asking.” Hannibal smiles. “You’re free to get  
back to work, if you like, and I promise I’ll leave you alone. But it seems to me you appreciate the opportunity to get off your feet.”

Will relaxes into the booth. “Yeah, they say sitting is the new smoking, but sometimes I wish I had a desk job.”

“Understandable. But I’m sure an upscale shop such as this pays well?”

He laughs. “Uh, no. Ten bucks an hour.”

“That’s all?”

“Yep. And my car isn’t going to make another ten thousand miles if I don’t replace the transmission soon, but right now, everything goes toward rent. I had no idea the city would be so goddamn expensive. There are jobs, yeah, but…damn.”

There he goes again, unloading his problems on unsuspecting victims.

“I’m considering a roommate, or a night gig,” he adds. “I don’t sleep that much anyway.”

“Are you saving for college? You’re…twenty, yes? Twenty-two?” Hannibal asks.

“Twenty-four, but I appreciate it,” Will says. “I’d like to go to college some day, but I can’t even afford to fix my car.”

“Are you looking for a better job?”

He shrugs. What’s with the interrogation?

“What major would you choose, if you went to college?”

“I don’t know,” Will says, standing. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta get back to—”

“ _Sit,_ ” Hannibal says sharply. “Your skill set is limited, and you’re living paycheck to paycheck. It would be a shame if you lost this job.”

Reluctantly, Will takes his seat. 

“Are you _threatening_ me, Mr. Lecter?”

“Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal corrects. “And I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve merely noticed that you’ve been spitting in my coffee.”

_Oh, fuck._

“Oh, fuck,” Will says. There’s no denying it. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day, and I shouldn’t have taken that out on you. It’s my fault I messed up your order, please don’t—”

“I’m not complaining,” Hannibal says. He tips his cup forward to show Will that it’s empty.

“You’re—what?”

“Luckily for you, I have a slight obsession with consuming beautiful young men in whatever way I can, and you are very beautiful, Will.”

Will has no idea what to say to that, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“Perhaps I’m untoward, but I’m not a monster, and I don’t want to get you fired. I have a proposition for you,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to come to your shop and order a macchiato. I know you work tomorrow, so don’t try to tell me you don’t. I want you to go to the bathroom and fill my cup with your urine. If you don’t, I’ll take my coffee and you’ll never see me again. If you do,” Hannibal pauses for emphasis, “I’ll pay you two hundred dollars.”

He smiles, stands, and briefly rests his hand on Will’s shoulder. Will tries very hard not to flinch, but he does, a little.

“I understand that a replacement transmission can run as high as eight thousand dollars, with labor. Consider it,” Hannibal says. “I might have more work for you in the future.”

~

Will drives home in a daze, snapping back to reality each time he hears the _clunk_ of the gear shift. Ten thousand miles was a generous estimate.  
He bumps his head on the weird overhang above the stairs, lets himself into his dingy apartment, and opens the cupboard. Hot sauce, sugar, and a jar of peanut butter. He grabs the peanut butter and collapses on the couch.

Two hundred dollars to piss in a cup.

It won’t fix his car, but it’s also half his weekly paycheck for thirty seconds of not working. Degrading? Maybe. But his job is degrading—smiling at rich people all day, and then driving twenty minutes to the shit part of town, while they work from home in their townhouses with stainless steel appliances and two-story windows. He shoves his fingers in the peanut butter jar.

It sort of matters what Hannibal is planning to do with the piss. Drink it, probably. He drank the coffee. But is he going to do it in the shop, or go somewhere else to enjoy it in private? Can Will even get away with a bathroom break so early in his shift?

God, he can’t believe he’s considering it. This must be rock bottom.

He barely sleeps. He eats the entire jar of peanut butter and dozes off watching infomercials, occasionally waking to a salad spinner, or an exercise machine, or a dishwasher that texts you when its cycle is done. The last one is kind of clever. Will can’t even afford a normal dishwasher.

****

2\. Disgusting

By the time he gets to work the next morning—enough room to park by the shop, this time—Will has written a plausible but unlikely narrative to prevent himself from feeling like a prostitute. It goes like this:

Doctor Lecter is switching jobs. He likes his current job, because he’s a doctor and somehow still has time to hang out in the Milk Crate, but this new one pays a lot better. The only problem is that they drug test, and he’s been stealing drugs from the pharmacy. Stimulants, most likely. That explains why he’s so ridiculously self-assured.

So he has his drug test this morning, and he knows he’s not going to piss clean. That’s where Will comes in. He fills the coffee cup. Hannibal rushes off to his appointment, and they don’t let you bring drinks in, but he has some kind of setup—a bag strapped to his thigh, or something. He pours it in, pisses clean, and gets the job. Will gets two hundred bucks.

He drinks water like it’s the end of the week and he’s out of diet soda. He nearly has himself sold on the drug test thing, and then Hannibal Lecter walks in the door.

“Ah, good morning, Will. Medium macchiato, please, with your single-origin roast.”

“Five fifty,” says Will. Hannibal hands over the cash.

The problem is, Beverly is already making his coffee. Will can’t jump in and finish it now. He panics. Drug test or no, he needs that money.

While her back is turned, he grabs an opaque paper cup and slips into the bathroom. He’s on the clock. Door: locked. Dick: out. Start pissing.

Will, _start pissing._

He finally gets the stream going, and then it’s easy: he fills the cup nearly to the brim, pops on the lid, and rinses his hands for all of three seconds.

Beverly is just passing Hannibal his drink, in a porcelain mug.

“Bev, sorry. He asked for that to go.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I have one made.”

“Huh? When’d you do that?”

“Literally just now,” Will says. He politely elbows her out of the way and passes Hannibal his cup of piss. “Your drink, sir.”

Hannibal grins. “Thank you, Will.”

And that’s it. The deed is done. Now he just needs to get the money.

Will zones into the stream of morning zombies, trying to ignore Hannibal in the corner, sipping his “macchiato” and drilling eye-shaped holes in Will’s crotch. So it’s definitely a sex thing, but two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. He’d better not leave before Will gets his money.

Finally, the crowd dies down, and Hannibal is still loitering.

“Can you cover for a minute?” Will asks Beverly. “I need a smoke.”

“You don’t smoke,” she says.

“I picked it up. Just a minute.”

He folds his apron over his waist and rummages through his empty pocket in search of invisible cigarettes. He gives Hannibal an insistent look on the way out the door.

For a minute or so, Will just leans on the side of the building, hating himself. Hannibal is going to ditch while he’s outside, and he won’t get paid. Which makes him a regular whore, rather than a prostitute.

Then Hannibal is leaning on the wall next to him. He must be sweltering in that suit. He’s digging through his wallet; Will might be drooling, and _fuck_ he’s got a lot of cash in there. He removes four crisp fifties and tucks them into Will’s back pocket, lingering for a quick squeeze.

They stare at each other.

“Listen,” Will says after a moment. He shouldn’t bring this up, but one of them is going to bring it up eventually, so he might as well seize the upper hand. “Do you want to fuck me? Was that the…other work you were talking about?”

“You’re straight,” says Hannibal.

“Yeah, but I need to fix my transmission.”

Hannibal says, “If we’re to engage sexually, it will be a mutually enjoyable experience. This is only a business transaction.”

“Business,” Will repeats under his breath. “So you like…drank all of that?”

“Yes.”

He frowns. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because you’re lovely, Will, and I want to keep part of you inside myself.”

“You’re just gonna piss it out later, you know.”

Hannibal is unperturbed. “It’s symbolic,” he says.

“Okay, sure.” And Will chuckles, because this guy is out of his mind. “I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then?”

“Just a moment. I have another assignment for you, if you’re interested. Another two hundred.” He slips the bills from his wallet, and Will’s eyes are drawn to his fingertips, rather than the money. “I’ll give it to you now, as a gesture of good faith. Please, don’t disappoint me.”

“That depends. What do you want me to do?”

“Go to the clinic on the corner of Eighth and Raspberry. Get a full STD panel, and request every test for blood-borne illness they offer. Do you have health insurance?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Will. “It’s not great.”

Hannibal produces another fifty, and tucks all five bills in his pocket. This time, his fingers collect sweat from the divots of Will’s lower back.

“For the copay. I don’t expect change,” he says, and then licks his fingers.

Will tuck his hands in his pockets. That much cash has physical weight. “Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna…go inside, now. And I’ll just give you the, uh, the results? When I get them?”

“Please,” says Hannibal. “Allow me to give you my card, in case I’m not in the shop.” He produces a metal tin from his breast pocket and clicks it open. It contains a single business card, just like that scene from American Psycho—Hannibal is rich enough to be a Patrick Bateman type, and if Will is lucky, he might have the abs to match.

The card, glossy raised ink on eggshell white, reads:

Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Psychiatrist  
4243 Main St. | (888) 431-5555

~

“What’s your sexual orientation?”

“Bisexual, I guess.”

“Mm-hm. Do you currently have a partner?”

“Uh…no.”

“When was the last time you engaged in sexual activity?”

“Two years ago, I think?”

“Do you receive anal sex?”

“Yeah,” Will decides.

That was the wrong answer, because it prompts her to swab his dick and asshole with a long q-tip, in addition to the blood draw. He reminds himself he’s getting paid for this.

Hannibal shows up at the Milk Crate every day for the next three days, but he doesn’t make conversation beyond the requisite small talk. Will doesn’t spit in his coffee, because if you’re good at something, you shouldn’t do it for free. On day four, Will gets a clean bill of health.

It’s a relief, but not a surprise. He can count his partners on one hand, and he hasn’t _received anal sex_ , yet—though the more he thinks about it, the more easily he can picture Hannibal fucking him, on the side wall of the Milk Crate, because that’s the only semi-private space where they’ve interacted. He suspects Hannibal will be thrilled to find out he can bareback.

But Hannibal doesn’t show up.

His shift that day drags on like rush hour traffic. And like traffic, Will has no good reason to believe Hannibal’s absence is orchestrated just to fuck with him, but he can’t shake the suspicion. 

When evening rolls around, whiskey and a saggy couch are far from his mind. He sits in his car and stares at his phone until, somehow, he’s through the anxiety and talking to Hannibal.

“Doctor Lecter speaking.”

Never mind. This is the part where he gets anxious. Will nearly hangs up. It would be better if he did, because the alternative is breathing into the receiver like a stalker with asthma.

“You’ve reached Hannibal Lecter’s office. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Heyit’sWill,” he says.

A pause.

“Will Graham?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad to hear from you,” says Hannibal, and then he stops talking. Which means it’s Will’s turn to talk.

He has to say something. Why did he call?

“Um…so do you want me to come over?”

“You want—?”

“No! Sorry,” Will says. Fuck. “I mean, I got the results back. I have them. Totally clean. I just didn’t see you today and thought you might need a copy, and thought since everything’s fine you might want to do…something.”

“Ah,” says Hannibal. Slightly perturbed. He didn’t expect Will to flip the fuck out and forget how to hold a conversation. “You seem to be under the impression I want to pay you for sex, Will. Unfortunately, that’s illegal.”

“What?”

If he doesn’t want to fuck, what was the test about? Is this a massive misunderstanding? If so, Will’s going to be awake for the rest of his life, replaying everything and cringing.

“Sex work is illegal in the States, save Nevada I believe. Bring your results to the shop tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“Hang on, I never said I wanted to—”

“I’ll see you soon, Will.” He hangs up.

Will is left staring at his phone, wondering what god cursed him with the social skills of an intellectually challenged moth. He was supposed to be the _victim_ , not the creep—but he’ll fling himself at Hannibal until he dies of head trauma.

No, he’s not obsessed. He’s broke. He just needs to fix his fucking car, and Hannibal probably shits gold leaf. And is it _really_ so crazy to assume that the guy who paid two hundred bucks to drink Will’s piss also wants to fuck him? 

Is he crazy?

Will doesn’t know. There’s no instruction booklet for this situation, but he’ll always err on the side of self-diagnosis.

~

Despite his borderline nervous breakdown on the phone, he’s looking forward to seeing Hannibal the next morning. Instead he sees Jack, sitting at the same table he and Hannibal occupied, scowling.

“Will,” Jack says, before he even makes it to the counter. “Can you meet me in my office?”

It feels like getting stabbed, and that’s not hyperbole. Jack’s office is a glorified supply closet. It shares space with the actual supply closet. There is no comfortable way to fit two people among the mops and shelves of bleach and window cleaner, so if Jack invites you in, you’re about to get hired or fired. And Will has already been hired.

“Is this about being late?” Will asks. “Because I swear, it’s not going to be an issue once I get my transmission fixed. I just have to take it slow until then, and I leave early, but you know how traffic gets around here.”

Jack sighs. “I assumed you’d rather discuss this in private.”

“Not really,” Will says. “Maybe we could just…get it over with…”

“Sit down, then.”

He doesn’t relish the thought of firing Will today, and he has better things to do—like hiring Will’s replacement. And to be fair, he’s late to about half of his shifts. It’s been a long time coming.

“I’m sorry, before you start,” Will says. “Could I just—I _really_ need this job, Jack. I’m willing to take a pay cut, or cut my hours. Or maybe you could give me a grace period while I find something else? I know this is on me, but I don’t have anything—”

“We can’t have you in the shop. I’m sorry, Will.”

Will bites his lip hard. “I wasn’t late _today._ ”

“Is that what you think this is about?” Jack’s lips have grown tight, and he looks to be cursing God, or at least cursing his general manager. “We’ve gotten reports that you…contaminated customers’ drinks. We have security footage.”

Will's face is rigid, but his chest collapses. There's a vortex in the center, sucking his ribs and organs inside.

He could stay and debate this: a ten percent shot at keeping his job, maybe—or he could evacuate. His lizard brain is telling him to sprint in the other direction. He stands. The chair squeaks against the wood floor. 

"My last check?"

"Direct deposit, same as always," says Jack. "I'll need your apron, nametag, and the keys, if you have them."

"Bev closed. She has them.”

“Apron and badge, then.” 

Will mechanically folds his apron, unclips his tag, and sets them both in a neat stack on the table, to be passed to the replacement Will Graham.

“I’m sure you had your reasons. If you want to talk about this—”

“No thanks,” Will says. “I have to go. Bye.”

Then he’s in his car, vaguely dissociating, staring at his trembling white hands. A Honda Civic is circling the block, waiting to poach his spot. He drives.

****

3\. Unlovable

4243 Main St. is a conspicuous townhouse with what appears to be a Victorian bell tower clipping through the corner. It’s full of windows, most of them shaded. There’s a small three-car lot in the back—Will nearly drives past it, until he notices the signs which read _Parking for patients of Dr. Hannibal Lecter._  
When he raps the antique knocker on the door, Will has no idea what he’s going to say. There’s no motion from inside the house.

God, Hannibal isn’t here. Will doesn’t _have_ anyone else to call; his only real friends have moved away to college, and his old colleagues tolerate him at best. His landlord is an asshole, and wouldn’t be happy to discover that Will has been fired. His parents are dead. The rest of his sparse extended family lives in Louisiana, and they’re no better off than him.

It’s the coffee shop pervert or nothing. His life is a dumpster fire, and this situation has blown the lid wide open, letting his toxic flames lick the sky. It would be hilarious, were he anyone but himself.

_Useless, disgusting, unlovable._

He’s about to get back in his car when Hannibal answers the door, wearing a sweater vest which seems incredibly casual, on him.

“William,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you. I thought we would meet—”

“At the Milk Crate, yeah. I got fired.”

Hannibal presses his lips together. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

They pause for a few long, awkward moments. Hannibal has no intention of inviting him inside, and this was a horrible idea. There’s no connection. Will is just a pretty face, and Hannibal has his own life, and they probably have nothing in common save a shared interest in bodily fluids. Hannibal doesn’t even want to fuck him.

Finally, Hannibal says, “You’re here to ask for my help, financially.”

“No! No, I couldn’t do that,” Will says.

“I see,” says Hannibal. “You must understand, I can’t help you unless you ask.”

“I’m not a charity case. I’m not here to beg for money.”

“Tell me why you’re here, Will.”

Without a word, Will grabs the crumpled up test results from his back pocket and thrusts out his hand. Hannibal takes them, scans them, nods.

“Thank you,” he says. A pause, and then, “Is that all?”

“Uh. Yeah, I guess.”

“You don’t need my help with anything else?”

“No.”

“In that case, it’s been a pleasure,” Hannibal says, and shuts the door in his face.  
Just like that, Will’s sugar daddy fantasies are tossed onto the garbage fire.  
He sits on the step with his head in his hands until he realizes he’s scaring away clients, so he moves to the car.

He’ll go home. He has fifteen days until rent is due, and he nearly has enough to cover it. Five days until his cable bill. They can shut that off. Ten until the electric, but it’s summer, and he could live without for a little while. He just needs to scrape some money together until he gets a new job.

His father left him a collection of antique pipes. They’re sentimental, but Will doesn’t smoke, so he can pawn them and make rent. He’ll have a look through the boxes of miscellany in the hall closet. Something in there has to be worth a few bucks. The internet will go off when they shut off his electric, so he’ll go door to door with his resume, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll go to the library.

That’s a plan. Not a good one, but it’s something, and it’s not like he’s going to _die_ —absolute worst case, he can stay at the shelter for a few days. There’s a church in his neighborhood with beds, and he met the preacher once. It’ll work.

Drive home, pawn shit, submit applications. It _will_ work.

Except, his car doesn’t.

He turns the key a few times, revs the engine. Nothing.

Choking down panic, Will gets out and pops the hood. He can’t make heads or tails of these new models; it’s all run by a fucking computer, and besides, he already knows it’s the transmission. He can’t fix that on the spot.

He should have gotten a credit card. His father always warned him about the dangers of personal credit, but his father also smoked himself to death, and he didn’t know everything. If he tows the car, he won’t make rent, and he’ll be homeless. Eight grand for a new transmission. He doesn’t have half that much in the bank.

Will leans on the hood for a moment, restraining tears of frustration. What the fuck did he do to deserve this? Maybe his grandparents are right, and he’s being punished for being a fucking queer. Or for spitting in Hannibal’s coffee. Or whoring himself out.

_Useless, disgusting, unlovable._

He trudges back to the front door. At the very least, Hannibal deserves to know that one of his parking spots is out of commission, and if he calls a tow truck, well. Will can figure something out.

Hannibal answers the door with a steaming mug of coffee, so maybe Will’s was never any good, and he only used that as an excuse to stalk him.

“Um,” Will says. “M-my car won’t start. I’m s— sor—” and now he’s crying. God fucking damn it.

“How can I help you?” Hannibal asks, utterly calm.

“I don’t know,” Will half-sobs. “Can I just. Sit down for a second.”

“Of course. Please, come in.”

~

Hannibal makes him herbal tea. It’s chalky and bitter, but Will accepts it anyway, because if he gets on Hannibal’s bad side, he can add his only chance of avoiding eviction to the garbage fire.

God, he is so fucked.

“I should let them impound it,” he says, mostly to himself.

Hannibal takes a seat in his elegant armchair. Everything about this space is designed to be welcoming to his rich clientele, and Will has never felt more out of place. 

“You should consider your options before making any rash decisions.”

“What _options? _” Will snaps. “I mean—I’m sorry, this is just. A lot to handle.”__

__“Will the Milk Crate provide you a reference? There are plenty of open barista positions.”_ _

__He crumples in on himself._ _

__“No?”_ _

__“They caught me on camera,” Will whispers. “Spitting in your coffee, I think.”_ _

__“Hm. You’re right, that could be an issue. Tell me about your other skills, and perhaps I can make an introduction for you.”_ _

__“Just—just customer service, and I’m bad at that. Uh, I could probably do manual labor. I can sort of fix motors, but not the new ones. I appreciate it but that’s not going to help me _now_.” He squeezes the empty mug between his trembling thighs. “I can’t even get to an interview without my car. I can’t pay my bills.”_ _

__Hannibal shakes his head. “You’re catastrophizing.”_ _

__“This is a _catastrophe_.”_ _

__The silence drags on long enough that Will briefly risks eye contact. Hannibal’s are black._ _

__“You’re desperate,” Hannibal says at last._ _

__Will laughs bitterly. “No shit.”_ _

__“You’re panicking. If we were to sit here and dissect the situation like adults, you’d eventually conclude that this is not the catastrophe you believe it to be. But you don’t want to do that. You want an instant remedy to your anxiety.” And perhaps he notices Will bristle at the psychoanalysis, because he loosens his own posture and leans forward, a lazy smile drawn across his lips. “Ask me,” he says._ _

__Will’s voice is stiff; his body is stiff; all his hinges have rusted in an instant. His head is pounding and his eyes won’t focus. “I can’t ask you for money.”_ _

__“Then ask me for work.”_ _

__“I need _eight grand_ ,” he says through gritted teeth. “Nothing I could possibly do for you is worth eight grand.”_ _

__“I disagree,” Hannibal says. “What would you do, right now, for eight thousand dollars?”_ _

__“I don’t _know_!” He’s nearly sobbing again, so he tips his head forward, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a few deep breaths. He’s dizzy. Hannibal is playing with him, but forfeiting the game isn’t an option._ _

__“What wouldn’t you do?”_ _

__Is he hyperventilating, or is he breathing too slowly? Something is wrong, but Will can’t put his finger on it. He feels… _good_ , and that’s not appropriate.  
__

__  
_ _

__He says, “I wouldn’t kill anybody.”_ _

__“Nor would I ask you to,” says Hannibal. “Anything else?”_ _

__“Um. I don’t want to get injured enough to go to the hospital. I can’t afford that.”_ _

__“But if hospital bills weren’t an issue, you could tolerate some bodily injury?”_ _

__Will squeezes the cup, but his thighs feel weak. “What do you want me to do?”  
Hannibal stands abruptly. “Follow me,” he says._ _

____

~

By the time they reach the kitchen, only a few paces away, a deathly calm has swept through Will’s body. His trembling hands have stilled. Hannibal grasps one and lays it on the wooden cutting board.

“You seem to be feeling better,” he says.

“Yeah…I guess I am. Maybe some sort of adrenaline crash.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal says with a smile. He steps into Will’s personal space and rests a gentle palm on the back of his neck. “Or perhaps you’ve spotted the emergency exit in this dilemma.”

Will leans in. He can’t help it. He’s suddenly sleepy and euphoric, and Hannibal’s shoulder is a safe place to rest his head.

“No,” Hannibal says gently. “Stay with me. I’m going to repair your car.”

“Ah, yeah,” Will mumbles. 

A drawer slides silently open, and Hannibal passes him a knife—no, a meat cleaver. Will knew it would be something like this, but he can’t muster shock or indignation.

“Keep your hand steady,” he says. He extends Will’s ring finger and pinky, and tucks the others under his palm. Will stares blearily at his fingers on the cutting board, and then at the cleaver.

“You drugged me,” he says.

“It’s only Valium. Something to reduce your anxiety, and make this easier.”

“Make this…” He glances up. Hannibal’s face displays the sympathy one feels when caring for a wounded bird, but it’s a display. He wouldn’t ask this of anyone if he felt any real sympathy. “You want me to cut off my fingers,” Will says.

“I’ll pay to have your car repaired, cover your next month’s rent and utilities, and recommend you to some friends who are local business owners. Or you can decline, and I’ll drive you home and be out of your life.”

No matter how hard Will blinks, he can’t get rid of the blur. It’s like smog, and viewed through smog, this seems like a reasonable proposition. Except—

“You said, ah. Said I wouldn’t have to go to the hospital.”

“I’m a retired surgeon,” says Hannibal. “I’ll take care of everything, if you do this for me.”

A twinge of Will’s fight-or-flight response breaks through the chemical barrier— _run, hide, get away_ —but it’s quickly dampened to nothing. Two fingers are a small price to pay. People insure their limbs for less than eight grand.

“I just…”

He just wants to fall asleep on Hannibal’s kitchen floor. How much Valium was in that tea? Too much? Is he going to die?

“Let’s examine the situation once more,” Hannibal says. He’s supporting Will’s drooping frame, lips nearly brushing his pulse point. “You’re never going to find a job without my help. I’ll have to tow your car, and you can’t afford to reclaim it. Eventually, you’ll be evicted. You’ll be reduced to begging. Or—” he raises Will’s hand once more, helping him grip the cleaver, and leans in close to murmur in his ear. “We drop this cleaver, together, and your troubles disappear.”

Will moans softly. It makes sense. He’ll never find a job. He’ll never make rent. He’ll die on the streets, if he doesn’t accept this.

Right? Does it make sense? He’s in no state to make decisions like this. He’s so tired, and he can’t focus—

“ _Will_ ,” Hannibal says, tightening their grip on the cleaver. “Do it.”

Hannibal suddenly releases him, and Will loses his balance. His hand falls.

There’s a sickening crack. He lurches forward, and the floor rushes up to meet him.

Then he’s in Hannibal’s arms. He’s choking on his own tongue. The pain briefly clears his mind, and a million better safer solutions appear—a temp agency, a personal loan—but it’s too late. He’s bleeding. His hand is throbbing and he might vomit. But Hannibal is lifting him up, pressing his mangled digits onto the board.

The world is swimming. His gory fingers are still attached to his hand by wet, white bones. 

“Don’t,” Will gasps, and then Hannibal slams the blade down, and the pain slams into his body. He screams, falls. Thunk.

“Perfect. Thank you, Will.”

Will is on the floor now, bleeding on everything, vacillating between blissful calm and horrific clarity. His hands are the color of parchment. “H-hannibal,” he slurs.

“Relax,” says Hannibal. He’s underwater, and his voice plays through an ancient gramophone. “I’ll take care of everything.”

~

Glimmers of movement. Frames torn from a film strip.

His stumps in Hannibal’s mouth, blood dripping down his chin; white agony of isopropanol, soft cotton, pork. 

Not pork.

Hannibal is wafting the dish under his nose, their faces nearly touching. He lifts one browned finger, nail removed, to Will’s mouth.

“Bite.”

Will bites gently, and his flesh dissolves. Hannibal sucks down the other end of the digit and draws close until their lips are touching. Dry, copper. Warm.

“Plato writes of the original splitting of each human being into two parts,” Hannibal says. “Each one longed for its other half, and so they would throw their arms about each other, weaving themselves together, wanting to grow together.” He offers a small, sad smile. “A temporary solution to an eternal pain. But for you and I, Will…embrace is no longer necessary.”

“You…cut…”

“You helped. Kiss me again,” Hannibal says, and kisses him.

Will could bite his tongue off. But wouldn’t that weave them more tightly together? No, too late—Hannibal has pulled away. He wrenches Will’s jaw open and drips saliva into his mouth, muttering, “Don’t argue. Swallow, swallow, yes…”

His hand skims down Will’s body, toward his zipper.

“What?” Will tries to sit up, spit still dripping down his lips, but Hannibal climbs on top of him. “Wait, you said—”

“That I don’t want to fuck you? This isn’t fucking, Will. It’s consumption.”

“Don’t _eat_ m—”

Hannibal clamps one hand over his mouth while the other unbuttons Will’s pants. “You’re moving in,” he says. “Tomorrow; I’ll help you gather your things and talk to your landlord, see if we can’t negotiate a buy-out. Donate your furniture. You’ll never want for money again.”

“Mmgh!”

“Accept this, and I will love you unconditionally, Will.”

He thrusts his tongue onto Hannibal’s palm, but that only makes him sigh softly and press harder. “It doesn’t take a professional to recognize that nobody else will ever offer you the same. You have no monetary potential. You’re hopelessly neurotic. Brusque, uneducated, lacking ambition.”

 _Useless._

“You’re homosexual, and you can’t accept yourself. Do you think you’ll be welcome in queer spaces, carrying all that self-loathing? Do you think you pass as straight? Everyone knows, Will. I knew the moment I saw you. Do you think you’ll find another partner who will indulge you as I do?”

_Disgusting._

Hannibal’s mouth twists into an impression of a smile, as painted by a blind hermit. His very pores weep cruelty. 

“I’m far more than you deserve, and you will never have another opportunity like this. You’ll be alone.”

_Unlovable._

Each word is another finger, severed and consumed. Will squirms and whimpers and mouths at his palm, but even if Hannibal lets him go, he can’t escape the truth. He struggles for a moment more, and then goes limp.

“Very good,” Hannibal croons. His hand slips into Will’s boxers.

When Will can next speak, he sounds as weak as he feels. “You got me fired.”

Hannibal hums, not denying it. He shimmies down Will’s body and inhales deeply. In the midst of this disaster, Will is still concerned about how he smells.

“ _Hannibal,_ ” he says, and every repetition of his name takes on a new layer of desperation. “Too much, please. Please wait, let’s talk—”

“Later.” And Hannibal consumes him.

His mouth is hot and sweet, but Will isn’t hard. Especially not when Hannibal wets a finger and slips it inside him. He never got this far with the stoner boy by the convenience store dumpsters; he’s never done it to himself. He’s never going to reclaim this first time. He’ll never get his fingers back, and nobody else will ever—

“Ah! Fuck, um—”

“Mm.” Hannibal pulls off. “Relax. Let yourself feel this.”

It feels like he’s going to piss himself, and when Hannibal’s lips again circle the ridge of his soft glans, the possibility becomes even more terrifying.

The steady pressure of his finger is inescapable. Will can writhe and whine, but he can’t pull away, can’t restrain himself for long. Can’t breathe. Oh, fuck—

“Ahh! H—fuck!”

His body stiffens; his cock doesn’t, and each pulse of pleasure is drawn out of him by Hannibal’s mouth and finger working in tandem. It’s an orgasm in slow motion—it’s not over, even when Hannibal pulls away. He watches, wide-eyed, as a weak pulse of semen bubbles from his limp cock. 

“Perfect,” Hannibal says, and licks him clean.

~

Will goes through the motions. He makes a solid 60k, and he’s pretty good at construction. Being outdoors, working with his hands—it becomes meditative, when the other guys aren’t bothering him. He doesn’t have to work to survive, but he has to work to stay sane.

He misjudges his grip, again, and his hammer clatters to the ground.

“Ugh, Price?” He shouts.

Jimmy Price pokes his head around the corner. Something about the shape of his face makes him look ridiculous in a hard hat.

“Sorry. Could you pry this out for me?”

“I’ll take over,” Jimmy says. “Somebody’s asking for you in the front office. Says you forgot your lunch.”

Will’s chest clenches. He wipes the sweat off his brow and passes over the hammer without a word, ignoring a few wolf whistles on the way downstairs. Most of the guys know, and they give him shit about it, but it’s generally lighthearted.

Hannibal is basking in the wall-mounted air conditioning, thoroughly out of place in the dingy office, but more comfortable than Will has ever been in his life.

“Good to see you,” he says. “Missing something?”

Will holds up his bandaged hand. “Yep.”

“Something else,” says Hannibal, indicating the brown paper bag on the seat next to him. “Carne asada with cilantro crema and queso oxaca. Still hot. I also included a small papaya salad, because I fear you’ll get—”

“I’m not getting scurvy,” Will says. “Stop making that joke just because I skipped _one_ fruit tart.”

“Apologies,” says Hannibal. 

He grins, and Will is struck by the image of his own finger clamped between those sharp teeth. It’s this or the street, he reminds himself. Hannibal treats him well everywhere except the bedroom, and this is truly more than he deserves.

“I also brought you coffee.”

“Thanks.” He takes the mug, sniffs it—but his sense of smell is no good, and he can never tell. “What’s in it this time?”

“I’m offended,” Hannibal says.

“If you ever try the hair thing again, I’m going to be furious. I eat enough of your hair when I’m—”

The receptionist chooses this moment to return from her smoke break, and Will clams up.

 _What’s in it?_ He mouths.

Hannibal stands and straightens his jacket, though it’s already perfectly pressed. “You’ll have to drink it and see.” 

He leans in for a kiss. Will’s mouth is loose and passive; Hannibal’s always tastes of blood, even when he hasn’t eaten.

“I love you,” Hannibal murmurs.

Will swallows hard. “I love you too.”

And he might be useless and disgusting, but he has the third point under control.


End file.
